Chain
by Dawn's Shadow
Summary: In a modern Egypt still ruled by a Pharaoh, struggling on as the world around it changes, a thief and a guard find themselves tangled in a quest to change the rules and break the chains that bind them. ThiefKing/Malik, among others.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This was supposed to be a Christmas present for Sierra's Darkness. Now it is not. Because it is not Christmas. Not because it is not a present.**

**Chapter One: Hero**

The man had never stopped grinning.

The guards had dragged him into the cell, body limp and bleeding from days of beatings and interrogations, but even between ragged breaths the man was grinning. They had thrown him into a sitting position against the wall and chained him there, arms held high and legs bound together. The grin was maddening, and, as Malik Ishtar watched between the bars of the cage, the guards spat on the prisoner's beaten form before tossing what had apparently once been his jacket at him. Now in filthy tatters, the red garment fell over the prisoner's near-naked form, the only source of warmth granted to him in the cold cell.

Malik was one of the newer guards, smaller than the rest and clearly less hard-hearted, which made him a prime target for the worst jobs. The older guards sneered as they pushed a basin of water and some cloth at him, ordering him to clean the grinning prisoner up for the Pharaoh's presence. Malik's stomach turned over – appearing before the Pharaoh meant the highest rank of punishment, reserved for those who committed mass murder, desecrated the holy shrines or attempted treason. They would be judged by the Sennen Items themselves, a horrifying process that was only whispered about and all conjecture, and it was widely accepted that those who were subjected to it were the very lowest of humanity. And now Malik would be alone with one such justly deserving prisoner, and he hardly expected any of his fellow guards to help him, if he needed helping. He swallowed.

Malik entered the cell cautiously, keys hooked tightly at his waist. The prisoner hadn't moved from the position he'd been set in, body draped against the wall and floor, head bowed and wild white locks covering his face. Thinking he might be asleep, Malik allowed a small breath of relief. He could just clean up the man's wounds and be done before he woke up. Malik kneeled beside him, setting his basin down and dipping a cloth into the cool water. He wrung it out again and began to scrub at the drying blood on the man's legs.

"Be more gentle. I don't need more scars just from being cleaned."

Malik jumped at the sudden, low voice, knocking into the basin and splashing water onto the stone floor. The supposedly sleeping man's shoulders were quivering a bit with laughter, and Malik caught a flash of white teeth, again that grin.

"You're clumsy for a guard," the prisoner said. Malik watched as the prisoner lifted his head. His eyes were blue – a startling shade in contrast to the rest of him, to this place, so bright they almost glowed. "What's your name?"

"Malik," he stammered after a too-long moment of silence, staring at those eyes. The back of his mind buzzed with the imaginary jeers of his fellows for showing weakness in front of a prisoner, and he quickly shook himself out of his stupor and moved back to the man's side, pulling the now half-empty basin along with him. "And I'm supposed to be cleaning you for the Pharaoh, so sit still."

The prisoner laughed loudly – so loudly that Malik instinctively flinched and glanced towards the door to see if anyone was watching. "You're shaking," said the prisoner. "I won't bite you, you know."

Malik looked at his hands before he could stop himself and scowled when he saw he was in fact trembling. The prisoner was already unraveling his nerves without doing a thing to him. "Shut up," he barked with as much force as he could, and he returned to scrubbing the man's skin, digging into an open wound slightly with the cloth just to feel better.

The man laughed again, and Malik could feel the grin burning through him, those eyes on him.

"Are you frightened because of the tombs I've raided, dragging the corpses of our kings through the mud to take their precious treasures? Or of the homes I've burned, killing the ones who got in my way? Or, perhaps," the prisoner's voice dropped to a confidential whisper, "because of the people I've murdered myself, breaking their arms and putting my knife into their eye sockets just to hear them scream before I cut out their throats?" His voice ended on an upward lilt, and Malik felt a shudder pass through him. He scrubbed harder, and the man laughed again.

"Don't talk like you know me," Malik snapped. "I'm not afraid of you. The Pharaoh easily overpowered and captured you, and now look at you."

The man sighed and said in a humored voice, "Rumour is I'm going to get to meet his Royal Highness soon enough. Shame I have to go escorted by those brawns-for-brains out there, rather than on horseback, meeting the Pharaoh head-on. Well," he paused to grin again, "Perhaps not head-on, seeing as how I'm a good three feet taller than he is."

Malik glowered; the man's self-amusement only annoyed him even more. He scrubbed the man's wounds until his tanned skin shone raw and red, biting back the few snide but rather lame remarks that sprung to mind—something about a height complex.

"Are you curious?" the man asked at length.

A moment's silence, then, "About what."

"How the grand King of Thieves got captured, of course."

Malik stopped scrubbing. His eyes turned to those stark blue ones fixated on him, and one eyebrow slowly went up. "The _what_?"

The man's grin could have split his face. And he began to talk.

He told Malik—in unnecessarily gruesome detail, Malik thought–-of how it had been a grand chase through the desert, with the Pharaoh's highest priests at his heels, and how he'd lasted two days running from them before hunger and a lack of sleep had started taking its toll on his ka, the beast of his soul, and he was overpowered. But not, of course, without putting up a great and long-winded fight. And, despite himself, Malik listened; his own life had always been rather ordinary, boring if safe, and the stories Bakura told sounded so far from Malik's reality, they might as well have been straight out of a novel. This naturally made him wonder if the thief was actually telling the truth.

As if to reinforce the doubt, the man finished his story with, "And now I'm here, waiting for my dashing hero to break me out."

Malik snorted and returned to cleaning a deep cut on the man's chest. He noticed, with a mix of annoyance and pride, that his hands were no longer trembling. "There are no heroes for the likes of you."

Time passed slowly in the days that followed, a waiting game for the Pharaoh's presence which, even for the "King of Thieves," was hard to come by. Every day, Malik was nominated to bring said King of Thieves his daily gruel and help him eat it, and every day, Malik was rewarded with some new story he never asked for. And, while he wouldn't admit it, Malik began to look forward to the company; it was conversation, at least, and on a less degrading level than that with his fellow guards.

The man told Malik about many of his greatest steals, the tombs he was most proud of; he told Malik of the rumours of corruption in the ruling classes; sometimes, he just talked about the best place for a decent beer, while intimating how much better the food was there, in some lower class bar, than in the Pharaoh's own dungeons. But Malik never learned anything more intimate than this – of who or what the thief was – and he never asked. He was just relieved that the prisoner never spoke of the stories he told Malik to any of the other guards.

The days blended together; a week passed, then two, and the date was set for the prisoner's appearance before the Pharaoh. Judgment day, as the thief so fondly called it, was coming for him and, though his lash wounds and other injuries were healing quickly, even Malik could tell that the thief wasn't strong enough to handle another tortuous interrogation or anything else the Pharaoh had planned. Malik wondered if the thief knew it too, for his grin seemed to waver a little each day.

The night before the appointment, as Malik brought in the thief's meal, he saw something he hadn't seen in the thief's face before—grim resignation, as if his hopes of escape had finally slipped from him. The thief quickly covered it as Malik clanged the door shut behind him; he smirked and shifted in his bonds, sitting up.

"Judgment day's almost here," he said, and Malik nodded as he kneeled beside him. Somehow, despite everything, Malik could not bring himself to be happy the thief was leaving. He couldn't explain the feeling, but there was some sense of injustice he couldn't shake, although if even half of the thief's boastful stories were true, he certainly deserved whatever he got.

He sat with the thief a little while after feeding him, although the thief had apparently run out of stories. Malik wasn't even sure why he bothered staying, except that, as the prisoner had amusedly pointed out to him a few days before, it was better to feel at least on somewhat equal terms with a prisoner than to return outside and become the dog of the other guards.

They sat in silence, until at last Malik couldn't take it anymore.

"Looks like your hero never came," he said with stiff humour in his voice. The thief was quiet a moment before his lips curled into a remnant of his old grin.

"No, he did. I just don't think he figured it out in time."

Malik blinked, mind quickly running through the past week or so. No one had visited the thief, and there were always guards posted outside his cell, except for when Malik was tending to him, so who…?

"We're two peas in a pod, Malik," the thief continued, closing his eyes, and Malik felt his heart thud painfully. This prisoner, this thief didn't really expect _Malik _ to free him, did he? It was impossible! He could lose his job, his pride—

But, a softer voice inside him said, if he didn't do it, he could lose the closest thing he had to a friend.

Malik busied himself with setting aside the empty bowl and the spoon beside it. He then moved the spoon to the other side, thought better of it, and put it inside the empty bowl. A few moments later, the spoon was on the ground again.

Playing with the spoon gave him somewhere for his attention to be, but beside him, he could hear the thief breathing, even and steady, and he knew that those eyes were on him. There was no laughter in them this time.

Malik scowled and threw the spoon at the thief's head before grappling with his keys, clawing at the clasp with blunt fingernails until he got it undone. The thief was staring with a mix of surprise and amusement – he hadn't even flinched at the spoon. Quickly, thrill and fear coursing through him in turn, Malik flipped through the various keys as he got to his feet, shoving several of them against the keyhole in the manacles that held the thief's wrists aloft. He finally found the right one and the manacles popped open. The thief's hands fell to his lap and the now-useless metal clattered noisily against the stone wall.

Second thoughts caught up with Malik at this point. His hands were shaking, but he didn't notice until the keys began to jangle noisily. What was he _doing_? It wasn't just his job or his pride he was risking – he could get _killed_ for this! It was treason, pure and simple. The thief was rubbing his numb arms, but, as if sensing the flurry of thoughts in Malik's mind (maybe he could get the manacles back on him before anyone noticed?), the thief looked up, eyes sharp and alive, and he reached up to snatch the keys from Malik's hands, which offered no resistance.

The thief plucked the correct key from the group easily – so easily, in fact, that Malik later suspected the thief had had his eye on it for a while now – and moved to unlock the cuffs about his ankles. His legs were free in moments, but even that was too long as Malik heard voices approached, complaining about the noise. Malik froze. He didn't have any will left; his stomach felt like a deflating balloon. He'd just freed a criminal. A convicted thief. A man headed for the Pharaoh's judgment. The King of Thieves. Him. Freed. Him. Already he could hear his sentence passed by the Pharaoh himself for such a sin. He could feel the burn of the whip, see the Sennen Items prepared to weigh his soul…

A sharp punch across the jaw snapped him back to reality, and his briefly fuzzy vision refocused on the man before him. Drawn to his full height and no longer limp in the guard's hold, Malik suddenly realized why he'd been afraid of the man at first. He was at least a good head taller than Malik, with muscles that were anything but hidden across his tanned body—they fairly rippled as the thief pulled his tattered jacket on. Malik stared blankly for a moment before he realized that his jaw was starting to ache, and a scowl overtook his awe.

"That hurt!" he protested in a sharp whisper.

"Stop panicking," the thief hissed as he circled around Malik towards the door. "Tell them you were undoing your belt to get the keys so you could leave when I knocked you out."

"What…?" Malik began, but a shock of pain suddenly overtook the end of his sentence, replaced all thoughts with cold, sharp pain. The thief had struck him in the back of the head, and the world went sideways as he felt his knees buckle. His last vision was of the man's bare feet moving swiftly towards the door, before that, too, spiraled into darkness, and his last lingering thought was that he had never even learned the man's name.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Sorry about the delay on this; with any luck, I'll be updating this every week now that I have some idea of where I'm going with it.

**Chapter Two: Scrappy**

Egypt had endured. This was the legacy it held, above all things. Through the reigns of conquering nations, beyond expansions west and east, through foreign emperors and sultans, commanders and kings, after the scope of the world changed and changed and changed, Egypt endured. For six thousand years, an immeasurable amount of time, they had called a man or woman their king, raised that person to the level of a god, and lived under his or her reign. The dead kings were so numerous that their coffins and pyramids were often built upon the ruins of their ancestors. The sands were thick with corpses.

This is not to say that the face of Egypt was not changed with the passage of time. Peace came and went. So did illness, plague, and foreign religions. There were times when many starved, and many died, and the people were not always happy. Several times in its thousands-year history, Egypt had been conquered and remade in the image of other countries or empires – these invasions brought foreign words, foreign rulers, and foreign thoughts into Egypt's bloodlines, but they were always overthrown with time, because in the end, the people of Egypt knew of no better life than the one they had under their own Pharaoh. For Egypt, through time and change, still had her gods.

* * *

Malik awoke with a start as the bus jumped beneath him, the frame shuddering dangerously. He winced and rubbed his face where it had been pressed against the glass, now indented with the lines of the frame. He had been dreaming of something fitful and dark, but the memory of the events of a week prior had been mixed in with the chaos – a certain prisoner's eyes had been staring into his before he'd been jerked awake. Malik sighed, sinking deeper into the torn plastic cushioning of his seat.

He'd been lucky to get off just losing his job, they'd told him. Letting a thief of such danger and renown break out, whether accidentally or not, could have had him facing a jail cell of his own, but in the end, the head jailer seemed to take pity on Malik – at least, that was how it had seemed. Malik had his own suspicions that someone had taken an outside hand in the matter.

Regardless, he wasn't much better off. In jail, at least he would have had food to eat - now, nearly penniless, he was forced to travel from town to town looking for work, and, since horses were definitely _not_ his favorite mode of transportation, he was forced to resort to a more public means. He grimaced as the bus jolted again, smacking the side of his head into the window. He'd taken a seat in the farthest corner in the back, hoping to avoid any and all human contact, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd be mugged by one of the other passengers if he so much as breathed wrong.

Malik pulled his folded arms tighter into his chest and squirmed downwards in his seat, trying to get more comfortable and resume his nap. He had plenty of time before they reached the next town. He rested his temple against the window, watching the monotone sands whirling and kicking up around the bus, and, just as his eyes started to drift closed again, the bus gave an almighty jerk and came to an abrupt stop, throwing Malik into the back of the seat in front of him.

With a groan, Malik rubbed his head and glanced down the aisle, halfway to vocalizing his protests before he realized that someone was actually getting on the bus. Malik snapped his head back to the window – the outside was still a swirling, sandy nothing – and then to the man who'd apparently been wandering around in the middle of it.

The bus driver glowered at the stranger, and seemed ready to berate him for bringing sand into his bus before a sudden motion and a bag thrust into the driver's chest silenced him immediately. The stranger strolled onto the bus as the driver looked in the bag, appeared satisfied with its contents, and closed the doors again without comment.

The man was almost completely bundled up against the harsh desert sands, such that only his eyes could be seen between layers of tan cloth. He glanced around the bus as it started up again and he shuffled down the aisle, heading, much to Malik's chagrin, right in his direction. Malik attempted to make himself as small as possible as the man flopped into the seat to his left, exhaling noisily. It was just his luck – the bus was almost completely empty, and still the man had to take the seat right next to _him_. Fortunately, the man didn't even seem to register his presence as he made to undo the fabric bound around his face. Malik settled grumpily into his corner, but he couldn't help a curious glance out of the corner of his eye as the fabric fell away, spilling out sand onto the man's clothes and freeing wild locks of strange, white hair.

It was a long moment before Malik's head slowly swiveled, his eyes wide, to the man who was now shaking the sand out of his hair. White hair, a vivid scar now clearly visible as the man pulled away the fabric, and – now Malik was staring openly - deep blue eyes that hadn't left Malik's dreams alone for a week.

Malik made a strange, strangled sort of mewl as he threw himself away from the man, pressing himself into his corner of the bus. The man glanced at him with an odd look, but there was no hint of recognition in his gaze, and Malik allowed himself a moment of relief at the thought that maybe he was wrong, or maybe, at least, the man didn't remember him.

Unfortunately, he didn't have a lot of time to dwell on it, because the bus hadn't been going another five minutes before it gave another jerk and came to another sudden stop, throwing Malik half-forward, half-into the man beside him. He winced as he was shoved off again, but the man was on his feet abruptly before Malik could say anything. Malik straightened to see him staring intently at the front of the bus, where the doors were opened again, this time to five men instead of one. At the lead was a man who, despite the cloth bound about his face, could at once be identified by a large metal ring hanging from a cord around his neck, which encircled a pyramid centered by the Eye of Horus, five spikes dangling from the ring's edge. It hung clearly visible in a way that suggested this man wouldn't tolerate not being recognized. Mahaado. Captain of the guard, Pharaoh's closest and most trusted priest, and there he was, on a dinky old bus in the middle of nowhere, glaring at the man who was slowly regaining a far-too-familiar grin. Malik had the sensation that the bottom of his stomach had dropped into his shoes.

"Well, well," said the man beside Malik. "You're quicker than I thought, captain!"

Mahaado scowled darkly. "There's nowhere left for you to run, thief! You made a mistake, getting on this bus. You're trapped."

The man shrugged lazily, smirking. "I just wanted to get out of the sand, captain," he said with casual drawl, and the bottom of Malik's stomach found a new home in his throat. It was certain now – he hadn't been wrong. He was barely two feet away from the King of Thieves, the man he himself had freed not two weeks prior. For a blazing moment, he had the idea that he'd brought the man here with his dreams, and then thought, no less madly, that perhaps the man had been following him this whole time.

The man's eyes darted around the bus quickly before he licked his lips, grinning wider. The other passengers were absolutely still, pressed into their own seats with their eyes anywhere but at the scene in front of them; they clearly had no intention of helping the captain and his men, but it didn't seem that he needed it. Mahaado was right, the bus was tiny, and there was scarcely enough room for one man to stand in the aisle, let alone for the King of Thieves to somehow squeeze past five men and get out the door.

Mahaado seemed quite conscious of this, and he let a small, confident smirk of his own creep onto his face. "Men," he said, "arrest the king of thieves." He drawled the title mockingly, and two of the men behind him laughed as they carefully pushed past Mahaado and approached the man beside Malik.

The man didn't step back, not that he had much room to anyway, and he raised his hands in submission, though the smirk on his lips clearly showed he had other plans. The guards approached, swords drawn and at the ready, and just as the closest one was about to reach out and grab the man's wrist—

"Wait!" Malik was aware of the fact that he was on his feet, and that he'd spoken, but try as he might, he could not remember choosing to do so. The guard did hesitate, however – no longer than a breath, just long enough for his eyes to flit to Malik's, his hand outstretched – but it was enough. The King of Thieves moved, his upheld hands grabbing the guard's head and cracking it hard against his own. As the guard slumped, the man grabbed the sword from his falling hand and neatly sheathed it in the second guard's chest, shoving him backwards to the floor.

It all happened so fast that by the time Malik had processed what he had just seen – one dead, one unconscious, just because, because – his knees were already buckling out from under him, his will gone. But the man seemed to notice, because, as lightning-quick as before, he grabbed Malik by the upper arm and wrenched him upright again, bringing Malik roughly into the aisle in front of him.

Malik was breathing hard now, suddenly a shield between the King of Thieves, and three guards who had just lost two of their own. He barely had a moment to feel terrified of them when a bloody sword at his throat reminded him of the danger behind as well.

"Move and this child dies," the man hissed. "And we couldn't have the good captain's name tarnished by the death of an innocent bystander, now, could we?"

Mahaado's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Malik had a suddenly, clear vision of what was going to happen. He was going to die. He was going to die in this man's arms as punishment from the gods for letting him go. That small mercy had led one man, maybe two, to their deaths on the floor of this bus, and now—

"What's the matter, Mahaado?" the man called, louder. "Can't do it?" He laughed, high-pitched and insane, and the blade bit deeper into Malik's throat. "Get me a horse!"

The guards looked to their leader for instructions, and Mahaado, his whole body visibly tense, stared at the man with loathing. After a long silence, he gave one, tiny little nod to the guard nearest, who hesitated only a fraction of a second before disembarking from the bus again. He returned to the entrance a moment later with a tether in hand. Malik nearly yelled as he was suddenly shoved forward, alarmed that this was the moment the blade would go through his neck. But the man was careful to keep the blade pressed without cutting, and he pushed Malik ahead of him as a shield, clambering over the fallen guards. Malik tried hard not to look down at their bodies as he went.

The other guard and Mahaado were forced to squeeze into seats as the man led Malik down the aisle toward the door. Malik let his eyes dart upwards as they moved past, but Mahaado's eyes were suddenly piercing into his, and with a jolt of terror, he looked away again. He was shoved down the steps of the bus, to where the guard stood with one of the horses they had arrived on.

"Get on," the man said sharply, and it took Malik a moment to realize he was being spoken to.

"What?" he asked raspily. He felt the blade lift from his neck, but he still didn't dare move, standing completely still and staring straight ahead at the monstrously large horse that seemed completely unfazed by sand or sun. Nothing, not even the terror of dying at the end of a blade, quite suppressed his instinctive dread of the creature.

"Get on!" the man said, louder, and Malik jolted forward, grabbing hold of the horse's saddle and pulling himself upwards in a messy and terrified scramble. The horse seemed to sense his fear, and it paced impatiently on the spot as he squirmed his way into the saddle and held on to the reins for dear life.

A moment later, the man had followed him up onto the horse, but Malik didn't dare look back at him, or at the guards or the bus – all he could focus on was the mane of the creature he was clinging to and the fact that he was actually being _kidnapped _by a man he'd risked his life to save in the first place.

"Much obliged for the ride, captain!" the man called, then wrapped both arms around Malik in a half-embrace so that he could grab the reins from him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have places to be. Say hello to the Pharaoh for me!" The man jabbed his heels into the horse's side and pulled the reins, and with an annoyed whinny from the horse they were suddenly and joltingly on their way. The horse swiftly came to a full gallop, and Malik closed his eyes, curving his body into the horse as sand whipped into his face and stung at his exposed skin. His chest ached, and he suddenly realized he'd been holding his breath. He released it in a quick gasp, praying to every god he could remember that he wouldn't fall off.

"The jail guard, right?" said a voice suddenly right beside his ear, strangely calm. He jumped when he realized what the man meant, and made an effort to turn his head while still not letting go of his death-grip on the horse.

"You did remember!" he shouted.

The man grinned savagely at him. "Of course I did," he said. "It's not every day someone helps me out – you think I would forget?"

Malik hoped his glare adequately showed how he felt about this kind of reunion. "It didn't seem to stop you from threatening and kidnapping me!"

Surprisingly, the man laughed. "You shouted and stopped that guard. You involved yourself in this one, kid."

There again was that hollow feeling in Malik's stomach. He'd done it twice. A small mercy had put him right in the middle of danger again with this man. If he had just kept his mouth shut, they all might have just left him alone; the man had been doing a good job of pretending not to know him after all. Malik groaned and returned to his cowed position over the neck of the horse.

"Don't worry," the man said, again leaning into his ear to speak. "There are worse things than being stuck with me for a little while."

Malik scoffed, doubtful, but he didn't really feel like arguing. A thought occurred to him, and he frowned.

"You never did tell me your name," he said into the horse, sounding even to his own ears somewhat petulant.

"My name is Bakura," said the man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: Okay, so I lied.  
**

**Chapter Three: Bird Cage**

"So what you're saying is that you let a thief who has desecrated countless tombs, including that of our great Pharaoh's father, stolen royal treasure and even attacked the Pharaoh directly – you let him walk off the bus because of some _boy_?"

Seth's voice was cold and sharp, and though Mahaado longed to shoot him a dirty look, to return the abuse, he kept his head bowed. Before he could reply, the firm but not unkind voice of his king interrupted.

"That is enough, Seth. Please explain your thoughts on the situation, Mahaado."

Mahaado nodded, finally daring to glance up from the floor to where his Pharaoh was seated, though he did not rise from bended knee. Pharaoh Atemu was seated at the head of a long table, with his other six priests seated along it, all watching Mahaado closely. His king was dressed in casual clothing; it was clear this sudden meeting had pulled him from what little free time he had. Mahaado released a shaky breath, then said,

"While I initially believed the boy to be an innocent bystander, perhaps acting on impulse or out of fear, it seems his description matches that of the jail guard who, just a few weeks prior, had been present during the thief's escape. He claimed innocence at the time, but now I feel the coincidence is too great."

Mahaado couldn't help himself – his eyes darted briefly to Isis at the table. "I believe the boy may have been some sort of partner of the thief, and that the escapes – both of them – were planned."

There were some uncomfortable murmurs and shifting among the priests, and Atemu nodded slowly. He waved a hand for silence, then said, "Still, there are some parts of that theory that don't make sense. I'm sure the thief didn't plan to be caught attempting to take back his ka, and yet without perfect timing, he never would have made it onto the same bus as the boy. You said yourself that he had not initially tried to flee into the desert, but was forced out of the city by your men." Atemu leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The Sennen Puzzle clattered lightly against its edge. "The rest of you, what do you think?"

There was a brief silence before Kalim, the priest who held the Sennen Scales, said in a low voice, "I believe a boy should be much easier to find than the thief has been, my Pharaoh. If he does know anything, even if he parts ways with the thief, we may be able to turn this to our advantage." The others nodded and murmured assent, except for Isis, who remained stony faced and silent.

"Isis?" the Pharaoh said, turning a little in his seat to face her. She looked up at him, but even Mahaado could see that she would not fully meet his eyes. "Can you see anything?" Atemu asked.

"No, my Pharaoh," Isis murmured, fingers brushing over the Sennen Tauk about her neck. "Nothing at all. Only shadows."

The Pharaoh frowned and returned to pensive silence. Mahaado tried to catch Isis' eye, but she was intently looking at nothing again. He wondered if the Pharaoh knew what he and at least a couple of the other priests were already aware of: the boy who was now in the company of the thief Bakura was also Isis' brother. It was an open secret, but it seemed that Seth and possibly Akhenaten and Shaadah knew nothing of it. Of all the priests, Seth was the most likely to try and exploit such a connection, but he hadn't brought it up. Mahaado himself would never speak of it, not even to his Pharaoh. He knew something of Isis' family history, and therefore knew that it was not a subject to be broached lightly.

"I need some time to consider our options," the Pharaoh said at last, starting to rise from his seat. "If that is all, I will dismiss the meeting." The priests all briskly rose to their feet and bowed as Atemu stood. As they filed out of the throne room – Isis swiftest to the door and out of sight – Mahaado hung back; he saw the Pharaoh dawdling by his seat. Seth sneered at Mahaado as he passed by, and Mahaado felt his temper bristle. Control, that was what it came down to; he was in control. He had mastered himself. Seth could not touch him. They were on equal footing, and much as Seth coveted the position Mahaado held, they both knew the Pharaoh would never grant it to him. He let his breathing return to an even pace, and Seth swept from the room without comment, so that Mahaado was alone with Atemu.

There was a silence that went a bit too long, and then Mahaado approached, once more falling to one knee. "I am truly sorry, my Pharaoh. I have failed you."

"You know I do not blame you, my friend," Atemu said gently, resting a hand on Mahaado's shoulder and squeezing. "Your judgment is not ruled by bloodlust or glory. If letting the thief go saved that boy's life, then your decision was the right one."

"Unless it was a trick, my Pharaoh. Unless my pity was played—" Mahaado said, his passions flaring again.

"You do not hold the Eye, Priest Mahaado," Atemu said, more firmly this time. "I would not expect you to know for certain what was going through that boy's mind, nor the thief's. Nor would I expect you to go against your better judgment. Now get up."

The last words were accompanied by a firm tug on his shoulder, and Mahaado rose obediently. He looked down at his Pharaoh, and saw that he was smiling.

"And this will be at least the thousandth time I've asked you to call me by my name," Atemu said.

Mahaado felt his face heat up, and there was a rushing feeling in his stomach as his emotions got the better of him again. "You know it is improper, Phara—Atemu—" He cut off abruptly; embarrassment had put all of his senses on hyper-alert, and he now clearly heard the sound of someone moving nearby. He threw his arm around Atemu, pulling him into a protective hold. "Who's there?"

Silence was all that met him, but as Mahaado continued to stare intently around the room, there was an awkward shuffling of feet and then a nervous chuckle as a girl peeked out from behind a large stone pillar.

"Hi Atemu, Mahaado. Um. Just—on my way to the bathroom," the girl said with a weak laugh, then a wince as Mahaado glowered at her.

"Mana! How long have you been hiding there?" he demanded, his grip slackening. He glanced down and was only more embarrassed by the rather pleased expression on Atemu's face.

Mana grinned, tracing a circle on the floor with her foot. "I, uhm—not long?"

"So you've been here the entire time," Mahaado sighed, touching his temple in irritation. Atemu laughed and walked over to Mana, patting her head fondly.

"Don't be so hard on her, Mahaado. Someday she might be sitting at that table, too. I think we can forgive her just this once, eh?" He turned his head to smile at Mahaado. Mahaado exhaled heavily, folding his arms.

"This is the third time this month she's snuck in here when she was specifically told to stay out." He frowned deeply. "Your magic is meant to be used for protecting the Pharaoh, Mana, not for making yourself invisible so you can sneak into places you're forbidden from."

Mana waved a hand at him, laughing again. "Ah, I know, I know, teacher! But you _were_ the one who told me to practice my magic more, and—" She stopped abruptly and jumped behind Atemu a bit as a dark look drew over Mahaado's face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Now, Mahaado, you look like you're about to eat her," Atemu said with another laugh, and Mahaado sighed, shoulders slumping a bit.

"Mana, return to your studies," he said, and Mana leapt forward, clicked her heels together and saluted.

"On my way, teacher!" she said with a grin, then ran out of the room before Mahaado could reprimand her further. Mahaado sighed and rubbed his temple– between the thief wreaking havoc at every opportunity and his student intent on doing the opposite of everything he said, Mahaado was starting to get a permanent headache.

"You're going to give yourself wrinkles, Mahaado." Atemu walked back over to him and reached up to take his hand away from his head. Atemu smiled and Mahaado tried to smile back, but it felt stretched on his face.

"Yes, my Ph—" He was silenced by Atemu's hand now on his lips, before it slid across his cheek and behind his head, drawing him downwards.

"Mahaado," Atemu murmured, eyes bright, "we've known each other since we were children. Is it really so hard to use my name, even when we're alone?"

Mahaado hesitated, the blush returning to his cheeks as he felt his king's lips hover near his own. He wanted to point out that they had not, moments before, been alone, that it was impossible to ever be sure they were alone, that all eyes followed the Pharaoh, for he was god—

"It's not my place," he said at last, not daring to speak above a whisper.

"One of these days," Atemu breathed, "You'll believe me when I tell you how little I think of the separation between us." He pulled gently, rising onto his toes so their lips could meet, and Mahaado said nothing more.

* * *

"So this is your big plan?" Malik said as he flopped back on one of the beds, wincing as he received a jab in the back by an exposed spring in return.

"What?" Bakura questioned distractedly, emptying the contents of a small bag onto the dresser. It was filled, Malik saw with some distaste, with bright jewelry.

"Hide out in a hotel," Malik continued, rolling onto his side to face Bakura, his head propped on one hand. "I mean, who's to say the hotel owner won't sell us out the first chance he gets?"

"Oh, he would, in a heartbeat," Bakura said casually.

"Well, then—"

"Which is why," Bakura interrupted, glancing up at Malik, "I already bought him out for more than the Pharaoh would ever be willing to reward a measly hotel owner in the back streets of Egypt." He fingered through the small pile of wealth, carefully separating out necklaces, rings, and other assorted pieces likely worth more than the entire hotel.

"Everything and everyone can be bought," Bakura continued, "and when you're on the run, your money's best spent making sure the people you meet along the way keep their mouths shut."

"That, or shut it permanently for them," Malik said dryly.

"Now you're catching on."

Malik groaned softly, laying back on the mattress and folding his arms behind his head. "I can't believe this," he muttered. "Gone from respectable guard to bribing back-alley hotel owners in less than a month. Rishid's going to _kill_ me."

"Rishid?" Bakura said.

"My brother," Malik sighed. "Well, adopted brother. More like a parent." He snorted. "If he finds out about this, I may never see sunlight again."

Bakura chuckled softly, and Malik glanced over at him. The thief was now sitting on the bed, exchanging some of the jewelry on his person for the pieces he'd pulled from the bag. Malik almost wanted to laugh as Bakura tried on a sparkling red ring. "So he's family," Bakura said.

"What's left of it," Malik said. "Along with a sister who's as good as vanished from our lives."

Bakura didn't reply; he scooped up the rest of the jewelry and shoved it back into the satchel, tying it off and tossing it carelessly into a corner. The bag burst open when it hit the floor and two gold rings clattered out and rolled rattling into a corner, and once again, Malik had to bite back an absurd laugh. But Bakura wasn't paying attention to the bag.

"I need to get out of these clothes," he muttered, plucking at his linen robes with a scowl. "Some king I am, out looking like an old-world commoner."

Malik started to say that it was probably better to look like a commoner when hiding out from certain death, but he stopped himself, sighing. He, too, felt like changing out of his clothes, more for the sake of how dirty he felt after riding around in the desert and then wandering through unknown streets, looking for this particular rundown hotel. And besides, he thought with an idle glance at the jewelry now glinting on Bakura's person, it was clear this was a man who didn't know the meaning of subtlety. He sighed, rolled onto his side, and tried to decide what the worst was he might find in the washing facilities of a hotel like this, when a dirty linen shirt caught him around the head.

"Daydreaming is bad for your health," Bakura said as he got up from the bed. Malik wrenched the shirt off again with an incoherent growl, and he found himself staring right at everything the thief had to offer, standing boldly before him with nothing but that stupid grin and the jewelry. Of course, Bakura had left the jewelry on.

It had only been a short time since the jail, and Bakura had been mostly naked then, too. But something about seeing the full display, in proper lighting and without the imminent feeling of despair and death all around—Malik scowled and flung the shirt back at him, hitting him in the chest. "Get dressed then, you idiot."

Bakura laughed and turned away, heading over to his bags, which were resting against the wall. Malik's eyes followed him, and he felt the tension in his stomach twist in a new direction when he saw a faded patchwork of scars marring the skin of Bakura's back – in particular, a series of whip scars jogged from his right shoulder to left hip in irregular stripes of stark white. There was a sudden rushing in Malik's ears and his throat felt tight – get away, get away, get away now. He got up and nearly bolted for the bathroom without looking back.

Bakura listened until he heard the click of the bathroom lock. Then he straightened, waited a few moments more, and when the shower finally started running, he walked to Malik's bag instead. He rifled through the things inside: a thick dark cloak, a couple more changes of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a few other personal belongings. His fingers wormed into the pockets until they found what felt like paper, and he carefully worked it out of the pocket it was wedged in.

It was an old photograph, worn slightly at the edges, but distinct; on it, Malik was standing beside two figures: one a tall, well-built man with some sort of scar over half of his face, the other a woman whom Bakura, with some surprise, recognized.

He chuckled, holding the photo up to the light and gazing at it with a twisted smile.

"Family, huh?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: Nearly a year since I started posting this again and I'm only on chapter four. I blame Jou's lack of a Brooklyn accent. It's very difficult not to write.**

** Chapter Four: Cat's Delicacy**

Isis was in the palace gardens when Mahaado found her, staring absently at an obelisk that stood out in the center of artfully arranged plants, with bursting, colorful flowers and towering green ferns and trees. There wasn't much plant-life that grew strong in Egypt, but the palace gardens always bloomed, and it didn't take a magician of Mahaado's caliber to sense the magic that was employed to keep it that way. The soil was kept fertile and flowering against its will.

"The Pharaoh's brother returns today from America," Mahaado said as he approached. "Pharaoh will be looking for you soon, to hear portends of Yugi's arrival."

"Tell him they are all good," Isis replied in a distracted tone without looking up at him.

"Isis." Mahaado touched her shoulder, first lightly, then more firmly to turn her towards him. "Pharaoh will notice eventually if you keep like this. And even I cannot conceal the truth forever. How many have seen your family in this palace over the years? Someone will speak."

Isis looked up at Mahaado, but her eyes seemed to wander away from his face, as if looking at something in the distance over his shoulder. "I have seen," she said softly, "what is to come. The many paths that all seem to lead—" Abruptly, her eyes focused in on his with a deep intensity. "The darkness. There is something there. His eyes live on in the dark."

Mahaado gazed into Isis' eyes for a brief silence, and then took her other shoulder as well. "Breathe with me," he said softly. "And banish the visions."

Isis seemed to deflate slightly in his grip, but slowly, reluctantly, she drew deep breaths with him, and closed her eyes. With a great effort, and a shuddering breath, she drew herself back up to full height, and when she opened her eyes again, her gaze was clear and focused. "Thank you."

"How long have you been lost in these visions?" Mahaado said firmly, not releasing his grip. "This kind of power—it could consume you if you aren't careful. What were you focusing on?"

Isis' eyes flickered away, suddenly guilty, back to the obelisk, and Mahaado knew his answer. He released her, though his fingers lingered on her shoulder and down her arm in silent apology.

"He used to come here," she said softly, drawing her arms around herself. "Before he was old enough to work, when he would follow me or Rishid to training, he would hide away here. He said he liked this obelisk best because he liked Ra better as a man than a bird or our sun." She broke off with a little, choked laugh, and then covered her face in her hand. "And now I see nothing in his future, nothing but darkness in every path."

The little hitch in Isis' voice made Mahaado's throat tighten, and he wasn't sure what he should do—holding her again felt like he was treading too much on their friendship, but there was little he could say to give her hope. What she saw with the Sennen Tauk had always been unfailingly accurate, and wishes and hopes did not change the future.

He found his eyes drawn up to the obelisk as well. It depicted an early Pharaoh, one of the first in their recorded history, making contact with the god Ra – first in the form of a man, and then in the form of the great winged bird who would forever serve the line of Pharaohs whenever Egypt required him. Ra and the other gods had joined with the Pharaohs from that first meeting, had taught them the power of magic and the beasts of their souls—and from that, Egypt had been born in its true and permanent form. The Pharaoh's name had been lost to time – perhaps a sacrifice to the gods who bonded to his soul – but Egypt still lived on in his image.

Mahaado wondered what a young boy from poverty had seen in this obelisk—for Mahaado, he inevitably felt the first sense of wonder that came with the realization that the same sun that walked so high could also burn his cheeks red and fill his world with light, could even flow through his magic and guide his king. The gods were forever reaching out to their people.

He stepped closer to Isis and drew an arm around her, pulling her gently in. "There can be no darkness while the Pharaoh and the gods watch over Egypt," he said. "Even for your brother, the sun will still find him, and the light."

* * *

When Malik emerged from the shower some time later, a towel around his waist and another over his shoulders, he found Bakura dozing on one of the beds. Bakura had changed his clothes and was now dressed in a dark waistcloth and a deep red jacket that, upon closer inspection, looked remarkably like the tattered and torn one he'd left the prison wearing. This one, however, looked brand new. Malik briefly entertained the idea that Bakura had it custom-made, but when he found his eyes and thoughts wandering, he abruptly turned away to find his own clothes.

His possessions were single-digit at this point – two of his bags had been left behind on the bus, and only his satchel, kept securely on his shoulder throughout the bus ride in case of pickpockets, had managed to survive his kidnapping. He had a few necessities, but he would have to remember to buy some more clothes the first chance he got. Climbing back into his jeans, which had survived the desert trip most reluctantly, was an unpleasant experience.

Once he was dressed, Malik walked over to the window to let in some air. He pushed against the stubborn wooden shutters until, with a low groan, they gave out, opening sharply and sending a shower of dust into the air. Malik coughed sharply and waved the dust away – so much for getting clean. And the now-open window looked out onto nothing but a back alley, with a view to the mud-brick walls of the building across from him, all the windows shut tight. Malik's chest tightened with a sudden, claustrophobic feeling; nowhere to go, and no one to see him, no one to save him from this place.

"Let's go get a drink."

Malik jumped and cursed in surprise at the voice in his ear; then, with a delayed panic, he grabbed the towel around his shoulders and pulled it tight. He turned to face Bakura, who was standing so close that he could feel their shared heat—and yet he hadn't even heard him get up. He made a mental note to always remain clothed around him in the future. "Don't _do_ that!"

Bakura chuckled, taking a step back. "You startle easily, guard," he said.

"I have a name," Malik muttered.

"Malik, then," Bakura said. "How about that drink?"

Malik hesitated, trying to find the trick—but a drink meant outside and people and possibly escape. "Fine," he said. "But you're paying."

Bakura laughed again, ruffling Malik's wet hair, and then turned and walked over to where he had thrown the bag of stolen jewelry earlier, picking out a few gems. Malik watched him, suddenly feeling more annoyed than anxious; he rubbed the ruffle back out of his hair. He couldn't tell what Bakura wanted from him now, except perhaps to tease him at every opportunity, but at the very least, he could pay for the drinks while Malik figured it out.

* * *

Jounouchi didn't think of himself as overprotective of his little sister; she was free to hang out with her friends, work her day-job to help pay rent, and then come home promptly before dark. But some things were just too much for any brother to bear, and top of that list had to include slick-haired sleazeballs and purported best friends making googly eyes at her _while he watched._ His arm was already sore from reaching across their shared table to wrangle his supposed-friend Honda's neck every time it started to swivel her way, and Otogi—well, it wasn't Jou's fault Otogi leaned way too far back in his chair to sweet-talk her as she passed by. You'd think he'd learn after the third time he fell over backwards trying—Jounouchi's foot had nothing to do with it.

"Everything okay here, boys?" Mai had sauntered over to their table from the bar with a fresh pitcher of beer; as she leaned over to put it on their table and take the empty one, Jou loosened his grip on Honda's neck long enough to grin at her. She had her blonde hair tied back tonight, and she smiled at him bemusedly.

"All good here – unless you could let my sis' off work early, so she can go _home_," Jou said, shooting a furtive glance to where his sister was waiting another table nearby.

"Or to my hotel," Otogi chipped in. "Some room service, a night in—ow!" There was a clatter and crash as he pitched sideways off his chair. This time, Jou left his foot on top of the chair, glowering at him. "I was _kidding," _Otogi said.

"The hell you were," Jou growled, then turned a pleading look to Mai, who laughed and shrugged.

"Sorry Jou, she's on shift for another hour. We're pretty busy tonight, can't spare the help. But you boys behave. You're turning the poor boy's hair grey." She leaned over Honda to ruffle Jou's hair, and Honda turned bright red and averted his eyes. Jounouchi grinned sheepishly, but he felt his own face heat up as well when her fingers lingered a little at his ear. She withdrew and sauntered back to the bar without a second glance, and Jou quickly busied himself pouring another drink.

"You heard the lady," he said. "I'm gettin' tired of kicking the crap out of you anyway. Let me drink in peace." Otogi and Honda both resettled in their chairs with a distinctly deflated air, but the prospect of more beer at least distracted them for a moment.

Jounouchi scoped the room one more time over the edge of his glass – Shizuka had migrated to clear off a table at the other end of the room, and was thankfully alone for the time being. The Cat's Delicacy was surprisingly crowded for so early in the evening, and there were plenty of people and plenty of noise to separate Shizuka from them – but, of course, that also made it harder for Jou to keep an eye on all the _other _patrons while he was at it. Honda and Otogi weren't the first to try and—_seduce_ her of late. Since Shizuka had reached marrying age (too damn _early)_, she'd had half a dozen marriage proposals, and at least twice as many _indecent_ proposals—at least that Jou was aware of. Sometimes he suspected she didn't tell him every time it happened—something about a few black eyes and broken ribs, she claimed.

If only all of them could be solved that easily. Jou's eyes slid over to Otogi, who had pulled out his cell phone for the fifth time to try and find a signal—and, for the fifth time, fail. He wasn't the sort you could just beat up and have done—he was a _consequences _type of guy, if only because he was rich enough to make big trouble for them if he wanted. Plus he was Yugi's friend, and Jou at least owed Yugi a scrap of self-control.

And _Honda_—well, Honda was supposed to be _his_ friend, since _toddlers_, and hell, Shizuka was almost as much Honda's sister as she was Jou's—but apparently the minute she got a chest, brotherhood went all to hell. And it was _really_ starting to piss Jou off.

"Wherever you plan to escort me next, it had better have a cell tower on top of it," Otogi grumbled as he repocketed his cell phone. "You'd think this whole damn country was off the grid for all the signal I get here."

"Don't worry—I'm sure no one's panicking to get a hold of you," Honda muttered into his glass, earning a dagger-sharp glare from Otogi that quickly morphed into snide smirk.

"As charming as expected—do you treat all of the Pharaoh's guests this way?" he said.

"You ain't the Pharaoh's guest, you're Yugi's," Jou cut in. "And they both happen to be our friends—more than you are—so we'll treat you as we damn well like. Drink up."

Otogi exhaled loudly through his nose, but did as he was told, and then arranged himself to watch Shizuka sidle between nearby tables. "Really, how can such an angel come from the same family as a backwards country dog?" he said, as if to himself, but loud enough for Jou to hear.

"What did you call me?" Jounouchi snapped, slamming a hand on the table as he moved to rise, but he halted as Otogi swiveled to him, pointing a finger right between Jou's eyes. _Consequences. _Right. Otogi smirked lazily.

"Sit, Mr. Guard Dog," he said. Jou sat. Then Jou casually jerked his foot up and kicked the underside of the table hard beneath Otogi's mug, jostling it and sloshing the contents out onto Otogi's lap. Otogi jumped up with a curse, and Jou smirked.

"Oops."

* * *

"Here's your beer, boys." Mai set down a full pitcher on the table in front of Malik and Bakura, and then leaned in a little towards Malik, so close he could smell her perfume. "You want anything stronger, you can give Anzu a shout, okay, sweetheart?" She nodded towards a tall brunette who was walking by, then winked at Malik, straightened, and left, but not before giving Bakura a slight nod as well. Malik stared after her.

"Damn," he muttered, tearing his eyes away from her retreating form to trail after the other girl she'd pointed out, Anzu. "I must have died and we've gone to the Fields to have beautiful women wait on us forever."

"Can't imagine I'd have you as a bunk buddy in the Fields," Bakura said with a snicker, pouring his beer.

"Can't imagine you at the Fields at all," Malik muttered under his breath. He grabbed the pitcher away from Bakura, but not before one last lingering look over his shoulder. The bar, The Cat's Delicacy, had been Bakura's choice, and it occurred to Malik now that it was probably a deliberate one. Their waitress had clearly recognized Bakura, so perhaps it was something of a safehouse for criminals and miscreants. Looking around at the people crowded around tables and clustered near the bar, Malik had a hard time imagining they could all be part of some insane guild of thieves and cutthroats – some of them looked very nearly respectable. But then again, there weren't many who wore their colors as boldly as Bakura.

As Malik was looking around, one of the men at a table behind him jumped up, cursing in English and yelling at one of his companions – the sudden movement made Malik jump, and he suddenly realized that he was completely wound up, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was like he had been holding his breath without realizing, and now that he did realize how tense he was, he felt completely overexposed. He hunched back over his beer and glanced at Bakura, but Bakura seemed completely at ease, which unsurprisingly did nothing to help Malik.

"Hey, Bakura, are we—are we safe here?"

"What's safe?" Bakura answered over his glass.

"What—safe is _safe_," Malik hissed, leaning in. "Safe is out of danger. Away from trouble. No more kidnappings or knocking me unconscious."

"Oh." Bakura grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Then yes. I probably won't have to knock you unconscious."

Malik made an exasperated noise in his throat, and he reached over to clap a hand over Bakura's glass before he could lift it for another drink. "Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. Are we _safe?_"

The grin slid away. Bakura met Malik's gaze, and Malik shrank back a bit with the intensity of it. "You're with a wanted criminal," Bakura said, slowly, quietly. "You _are_ a wanted criminal. We are in the Pharaoh's city, in the Pharaoh's country, in the Pharaoh's world. Safe is not a promise I can make, not ever."

Bakura pulled his glass away from Malik's hand, drained it, and then said, more lightly, "Not to mention two of the Pharoah's guards sitting at that table over there."

Malik's stomach dropped to his shoes. The back of his skull went cold, and he had to fiercely resist the urge to turn around and look at the place behind him where Bakura was staring. "What?" he hissed.

"Two of them. I don't recognize the third, but judging from the tone, he's an American. Why an American, I wonder…" Bakura reached for the pitcher to fill his glass, but Malik's hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"_What_," he hissed. His blood was pounding in his ears, and Bakura was looking at him with a vaguely surprised expression.

"What?"

"_What do we do._"

Something in Malik's face seemed to perturb Bakura – for just a moment, something close to worry crossed his features. But then he lifted his other hand to flag down the waitress Anzu, saying, "How about we get something to eat?"

* * *

"Hey. Hey, Jounouchi." Honda reached over the table to tug insistently at Jounouchi's sleeve, his eyes locked on something across the room from them.

"What, what?" Jounouchi snapped, swiveling back from where he'd been scouring the room again for Shizuka.

"Didn't our captain's report on that thief they're looking for have something about him having a scar and hanging out with a blond guy?"

"Man, no one reads those reports," Jounouchi said, swatting Honda's hand away.

"Everyone reads them except you, Jounouchi," Honda said. "But, that's not the point, look." He pointed insistently across the room at the pair of people ordering something from Anzu. Jounouchi's eyes widened; he didn't recognize the smaller of the two, but the taller, his red jacket standing out starkly, looked almost exactly like the wanted poster that had been shoved in his team's face while his captain prattled on about responsibility to the Pharaoh and dangerous criminals.

"Fuck." Jounouchi rose to his feet sharply, and Honda quickly followed suit. Otogi turned to stare at the men at the table with interest, twirling a lock of hair.

"Hmm, a thief who hangs out in bars with the Pharaoh's guards?" he said. "How lucky for you. Maybe he wants to be arrested."

"Shut up," Jounouchi snapped. "You stay here. We'll be back."

"Try to do more than just yap at their ankles, won't you?"

"You asshole—" Jou started to growl, but Honda cut him off, grabbed the shoulder of his tunic.

"Enough. Now, Jou."

Jounouchi bit his tongue and nodded. He and Honda drew their swords and began to walk towards the men at their table.

For a brief moment, Jounouchi felt a sudden elation rise in him. The men hadn't even looked up at them yet. This was big. This was promotion big. This was big fat damn award big. This was an end to poverty and debt for him and for Shizuka—

And then somewhere in the jumble of eager joy, the man, that thief, looked straight at him like he was waiting for them, and that grin cut all of Jou's elation to ribbons.

The next thing he remembered was the glass tankard, half-full of beer, that smashed into his nose.

"Run." Bakura didn't stumble, didn't even hesitate. Before Malik could stammer out a reply, or even utter an exclamation as Bakura suddenly hurled his glass over Malik's head, Malik was wrenched away from the table by his wrist and away. The guards had moved quickly to block the path to the door behind Bakura - one clutching a heavily bleeding nose with his free hand -, but Bakura dodged to the side and then ran for the tables at the back of the bar.

There was a stage in the far corner next to the bar counter, and they hurtled towards it, pursued closely by the two guards. All around them, the noisy chatter escalated to a roar as patrons suddenly realized—or didn't—what was going on, and surged to get out of the way. People leapt out of chairs, knocking tables and food around, and Malik caught his shoulder and then the side of his face against people running the opposite direction, towards the door. But Bakura continued to half-lead, half-drag Malik towards the back, to what appeared to be a dead end between the stage and the bar.

And then he jogged left, and they were through a door and into what appeared to be a back hallway. The smell and sounds immediately told Malik that the kitchen was nearby, and there were several other doors along the hallway – but the one at the very end had daylight spilling through it, and that was where they were running towards.

A distinct click rose above the now muffled clatter and shouts from the bar, and Malik turned his head just in time to see the brunette – Anzu – turning a key in the lock of the door they'd fled through. She caught Malik's glance and smiled, then held a finger to her lips as sudden, loud bangs erupted on the other side of the door, and then the unmistakeable sounds of the door being forced. Malik gaped as Anzu ducked through another door in the hallway and disappeared.

He had barely a moment to process all of this before another figure suddenly appeared to their right – a girl, another waitress, carrying an oversized tray of chicken wings out of the kitchen, nearly collided with them in their flight. Bakura spun to avoid her as she tottered backwards against the kitchen doors with the tray in her arms, and he nearly wrenched Malik's wrist out of its socket pulling him along, but for the briefest moment as they hurtled past, Malik was certain he had seen Bakura sneak a few chicken wings from the tray with his free hand. And as they fell through the last door and into the sunlight, leaving the dazed waitress and the distinct cracks of wood giving way behind them, Malik once again felt a strange calm come over him in the absurdity of it all. Where did you hide stolen chicken wings in a waistcloth with no pockets?


End file.
